Rules for Hunting
by procrastin8or951
Summary: Hunting is control, fear is vulnerability, be ready all the time. But Dad didn't leave them enough money and Dean is starving and when he can finally eat again, it's too hard to be in control. Dean is a recovering bulimic, worried about relapse. Written for the prompt at hoodie time. Warning for eating disorders and language
1. Rules for Hunting

**Rules for Hunting**

**Summary: **Written for the hoodie_time prompt: __Dean had bulimia. "Had" being rather loosely defined- the main thing is that Dean's not binge eating or throwing up anymore and in traditional Winchester fashion the issue's been swept under the carpet. Except that John's been gone on a hunt longer than expected and the food supply is running low. Dean's been sneakily giving most of it to Sam and is starving hungry and worried about where John is. Eventually John gets back on halloween, with food, and Dean manages to choke down some dinner like a normal person. But John's also brought back some candy for trick or treaters- exactly the sort of thing Dean used as binge food. John can't work out why Dean's so jittery, until he realises that with his blood sugar all messed up and the worry Dean's worried about relapsing.__

* * *

><p>"Just a few more days" sinks into his empty stomach in a hard knot. "Taking a little longer than I thought" is the sweat on his palm, the phone slipping so he just catches it against his collarbone. "You can make do with what I left, right?" beats his heart hard enough he can see his ribs vibrating with the force of it.<p>

"We're fine," roughens his throat, makes his voice hoarse. "Take your time" tightens around his neck and he hangs up before anyone hears him gasp for air.

"Dean?" He inhaled through his nose, past the noose of words, spins around to face his brother with the wall intact.

_"Fear is vulnerability. If I can see it, so can everything else."_

"Just a few more days, Sammy," he says and grins so Sam won't see the panicked clench of his teeth, the numbers and plans spinning behind his eyes. "Guess you're stuck with me a while longer."

"It's _Sam_," Sam insists because apparently no teenager worth his salt has a two-syllable name anymore, and Dean remembers that Sam has hit thirteen and a growth spurt since the last time this happened. Remembers that while Sammy ate plenty, _Sam_ eats like a fucking horse, and they have no food left at all because Dad was supposed to be back today. Remembers that he has less than ten bucks left in his wallet, including the emergency cash he dipped into a week ago, and that _Sam_ has some kind of moral objection to eating peanut butter for more than two meals each day.

Picking up his jacket to leave, he allows himself a moment to be grateful for the anxiety twisting his stomach because that's just one less mouth to feed.

_"You've got to have a plan. Don't go in half-cocked. You'll get someone killed."_

He sits on the bench with the sale ads, tears out the coupons he needs, scratches out a plan in the margin of the paper with tip of a pen that has run out of ink. "Just a few more days" always means at least four days but not more than seven, but he plans for a week just in case. Boxed macaroni is two for a dollar, store brand bread is a dollar for twenty slices, peanut butter is a dollar fifty, and he can get canned tuna with the rest. He does the math in his head, seven boxes and three cans and one jar and one loaf and eight and a half percent tax, fuck these blue-blood New England towns, comes to eight dollars and ninety-five cents, which is perfect, because he has nine dollars in his pocket. That's a week of dinners, because Sam will eat a whole box of macaroni himself, and a week of lunches because he takes a sandwich and a half (it's just the right amount, like he's fucking goldilocks or something), and the tuna mixes in with the pasta because Sam has a thing for complete proteins or fatty acids or some shit Dean doesn't remember.

He wakes up hungry, cold, achy, shuffles Sam out the door and to school on time, thanking God Sam isn't a breakfast person. At lunch, he flirts his way into a handful of fries or chips, a bite of a cookie, wants to try out Sam's puppy dog eyes but it makes him feel like a stray begging for food. Each night he steals a couple bites of Sam's macaroni, pre-tuna because that stuff is disgusting, and tells Sam he already ate, will eat later, had a big lunch, is too tired. Goes to bed hungry, cold, achy, counting in his head the slices of bread, the boxes of pasta, tablespoons of peanut butter, breathing through the emptiness of his stomach.

_"Hunting is control. You have to be in control, always. If you aren't, you're dead." _

Dean is in control. He will prove this time that he can take care of everything. It doesn't have to be like all the other times, the hunger leading into eating, the eating devolving into the reason Dad hadn't left them alone for more than a day or two in the last few months.

If Dad can be gone for weeks on end hunting, doing something important, Dean can handle taking care of Sam. He can handle this one simple thing, and maybe when Dad gets back and sees that Dean can do this, maybe he'll trust Dean again. Maybe Dean will finally be able to erase the memory of the look in Dad's eyes, the hurt and disappointment and anger in his eyes when he walked into the bathroom and Dean was on his knees, fingers down his throat.

Dad never said anything about it, just quietly took them to Bobby's and only took short jobs, hung around more, especially after meals. Dean never said anything about it either, but that was the last time he threw up. He started to, once, because "_Be ready, all the time. Evil sons of bitches don't show up on a schedule_" and how could he be ready with his stomach so full, slowing him down? But he remembered Dad's face, the echo of that door closing, and he walked back out of the bathroom and worked on cars all afternoon.

Dean wakes up on the seventh day so worried he thinks he could throw up the absolutely nothing in his stomach without even trying. Because Dad should have been back, because the hunt is taking too long, because Dad hasn't called, because they will be out of food by tonight, because he only has fifteen cents in his wallet.

It's Halloween today, he remembers, but his stomach is in knots and his heart is in his throat and even though he hasn't had more than a mouthful of food at a time in a week, he can't eat a single piece of the free candy. He pockets it to give to Sam, because even teenagers with one-syllable names like Halloween candy.

"Why are you giving this to me?" Sam asks suspiciously, and Dean rolls his eyes. Like he starved all week so Sam could eat, just to poison him?

"Because I'm an awesome brother," he says instead. "If you don't want it, give it back." He makes a grab for it, an exaggerated lunge just for show and Sam dodges, pocketing all but one piece, which he unwraps and shoves in his mouth. Through sticky chocolate, Sam chatters about school and how his Spanish class had a party and somewhere on the line exits onto some weird tangent about how maybe they won't learn about pilgrims in November because they already finished colonial times or something, Dean isn't really listening, barely feels Sam tugging at his pocket when they round the corner and he sees the Impala, thinks she has never looked prettier than she does right now.

Dad is inside, a feast's worth of takeout boxes spread across the table and he grins at them. "Hey, boys. Hungry?" and it's like a chasm opens up inside Dean, every meal he didn't eat all week an empty space inside him and he thinks he could eat all of this and more and he starts to panic.

Sam pushes past where Dean has frozen halfway in the door, and sits at the table, pulling a container to him enthusiastically. "Starving. I was getting so sick of macaroni."

Dean steps inside and closes the door, cautiously sits at the table, not yet reaching for anything. Dad sits across from him, pushes one of the containers at him and opens his own. "Yeah, I noticed there wasn't much food," Dad says around a mouthful of burger and Dean swallows hard as he catches Dad's eye. _Hurt and disappointment and anger_.

Dean eats mechanically, slowly, barely tasting his food, long pauses between each bite, willing the chasm in his stomach to shrink.

Dad and Sam are done before Dean has finished even half of what is in his container, but he pushes it away, because if he takes one more bite he won't be able to stop himself from finishing everything, from eating until it hurts, and Dad is already looking at him with the _hurt and disappointment and anger_ he remembers even though he's trying so hard.

"You okay, Deano?" Dad is staring at him, hard, scrutinizing, and Dean forces a nod, muscles so tight he's almost shaking. Dad nods, shortly, looks away, reaches down to a bag next to the table, pulls it up to set it in the middle. Halloween candy. Several pounds of it. Dean almost throws up right there.

He should have been prepared for something like this, because Dad's not going to just forget how Dean fucked up just because it's been a couple months. A test, to see if Dean really is done fucking up.

_"You're training. Do it over again. Ten times the right way for every time you mess up. How will you do it right when it matters if you can't do it right now?"_

Dad used to bring candy after every hunt, a down payment on Sam's upset at not being normal, at being left, at missing his Dad, because even teenagers can be bought off with candy. Dad would bring them something normal, something to make up for the things they did without, watched them eat the candy with a small smile like the payment was working, like he had convinced them the world was okay again just for a moment. Dad never smiled like the world was okay and Dean would unwrap piece after piece just to watch that smile, this moment of being a normal family with kids who eat candy and parents who like to see their kids happy. Piece after piece until his stomach was achingly full, until he remembered _"Hunters have to be in shape. You never know when you'll have to run for your life_."

Sam is eating candy and Dad is watching Dean stare at it, waiting for Dean to fail this test because he can't control himself and _hunting is control_ but he can still taste the candy coming back up, can't possibly just swallow one piece because his hunger is gravity and everything is drawn to the emptiness.

"You okay, Dean?" Dad says gruffly.

"Had a big lunch," he lies and immediately wishes he hadn't because he knows what Dad must be thinking now, that he's refusing the test because he already failed.

"Sammy, why don't you take your candy and go do your homework in your room?" Dad says, never moving his eyes from Dean.

Sam mutters something with "_Sam_" being the only distinct word, but obediently shoulders his bag and grabs another handful of candy, shuffles to the bedroom of the tiny apartment and closes the door.

Dad moves to the chair next to Dean's, leaning in, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. "Dean?"

Dean can feel himself shaking, his chest tight and he can't breathe quite enough, can't make himself look at Dad, just stares at the candy and remembers it coming back up, stares and remembers how easy it is to be hungry when Sam needs the food, how hard it is when he doesn't have to choose between Sam and himself

"Dean, look at me." It's that ordering voice and he can't help but snap to attention, eyes fixed on his father's.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"No, sir," he says softly, shaking his head. "Nothing's wrong."

"Something's wrong," John insists. "Look at you. You're pale, you've lost weight…" His eyes harden suddenly. "Dean, have you been eating?"

"What?" Dean asks, startled.

"Have you been eating?" John repeats, his giving orders voice back and Dean forces himself to focus.

"I haven't been eating too much, sir," he says and pauses, trying to find words for enough to get by but not enough to throw up, without those words because they don't talk about this.

Dad follows Dean's eyes back to the bag of candy and realization sweeps his features. "Oh, shit. Dean. I didn't –" He grabs the bag, ties the top, removes it from the table, sets it somewhere out of Dean's sight. He grabs both of Dean's shoulders, forces Dean to look at him. "You're worried about…" he pauses, then forces himself to continue "relapsing?"

Dean nods almost imperceptibly.

"You haven't been eating," Dad says and it isn't a question, but Dean tries to answer anyway.

"I'm sorry, sir," he mumbles. "I didn't plan well enough, we didn't have enough left this week. I didn't want Sam to be hungry."

"Jesus, Dean, why didn't you tell me?" Dad drops his hands from Dean's shoulders and Dean folds in on himself just a little.

"The hunt," he says softly. "I didn't want to fuck everything up just because I couldn't –"

"I should have planned better," Dad cuts him off. "Should've realized how long this job would take, left you more."

_"You've got to have a plan. Don't go in half-cocked. You'll get someone killed."_

"Your blood sugar's got to be seriously fucked," Dad says. "Think you can eat a little more of this?" He taps the top of the container Dean had picked at earlier.

Dean shakes his head because he's weak and dizzy and so, so hungry and if he starts, he won't be able to stop and he can't do that in front of Dad.

"Just this box. I won't let you go overboard," Dad promises and Dean nods, opens the container. He still eats slowly, Dad watching him, forcing his heart to slow, the panic to ease, and it's easier with every bite.

_"Hunting is control. You have to be in control, always. If you aren't, you're dead."_

"You can't do this," Dad says, voice rough and Dean thinks _hurt and disappointment and anger, _but Dad isn't looking at him at all. "You can't starve. What if something showed up and you hadn't eaten for days. You think you're going to fight it off?"

_Hunters have to be in shape. You never know when you'll have to run for your life_."

Dean shakes his head. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Tell me, next time, okay?" Dad says, patting him on the shoulder and standing up. "Don't be afraid."

_"Fear is vulnerability. If I can see it, so can everything else." _

Dean nods, but Dad is done with the conversation, has moved over to the couch, back turned to Dean. Dean stands, makes his way to the bedroom while Dad flips through channels, sprawls across the bed closest to the door. Sam doesn't even look up from his book.

Dean starts to roll over, but feels the shape of something in his jacket pocket, slips his hand in and comes out with a single Reese's peanut butter cup, remembers the tug at his pocket when Sam tried to sneakily slip something in on the walk home. He unwraps the candy, holds it in his hand for a long moment.

_"You're training. Do it over again. Ten times the right way for every time you mess up. How will you do it right when it matters if you can't do it right now?"_

He eats the Reese's cup slowly, in no less than five bites. And he listens to Sam flipping pages and Dad flipping channels and feels the warmth of food in his stomach and he doesn't feel sick at all.

End


	2. All the Empty Spaces

**All the Empty Spaces**

John's halfway through the bottle of Jack when Dean slips back into the motel room, the smell of desperation and bus station clinging to his clothes. Neither of them says a word as Dean rummages through his duffle, rooting around until he comes up with a two pound bag of peanut M&Ms, and John doesn't even look up when Dean steps over the salt line and closes the door behind him.

Dean sits in the Impala, ramrod straight, staring through the windshield, knuckles white where he grips the bottom of the steering wheel. He breathes long and slow because there's too much space in the world. There's an empty floorboard in the backseat, where his brother's ginormous backpack should sit, cold motionless air in the passenger seat. There's an extra half-inch of room between his foot and the gas pedal where he's always kept the seat pushed back just farther than is comfortable so those stupid gangly legs weren't cramped. Dean reaches for the lever and slides the bench seat incrementally forward but instead of feeling like he fits again, he just remembers the empty space behind him where he and Sam grew up until they grew apart.

The M&Ms sit where Sam should, neatly in the passenger seat without taking up any real space. He opens the bag and shoves a fistful into his mouth, almost chokes because there isn't enough space for all of this. As soon as he swallows, he's pushing more candy into his mouth, jaw aching with the work of all this chewing, and this wasn't what he wanted at all, but his wallet is empty because he secretly slipped all his cash into Sam's pocket as he boarded a bus so he could be something other than Dean's brother.

Hundreds of Technicolor candies don't fill the Sam-space in Dean any more than they did in the Impala and he suddenly doesn't want them to, wants the emptiness inside again. John doesn't say anything when Dean drags himself back inside, hand clutching his overfull stomach, but the whiskey is three quarters gone. And when he comes back from the bathroom, face pale, body trembling, hollow once more, and finds his dad staring at an empty bottle, Dean knows Dad knows about empty spaces too.

John meets his eyes. "How 'bout we go to Bobby's for a little while?"

In the mornings, he trains, stomach empty and heart pounding between gunshots. In the afternoons, he works on Bobby's cars, fits every piece where it should go, tightens it down to stay, fixes them up to be perfect so they can drive away. In the evenings, they eat dinner and they all sit together like they're a real family, two widowers and a bulimic, like some parody of a sitcom, until someone says something about a drink. Dad gets silently wasted, Dean drinks enough to throw up, and Bobby plies them both with aspirin and water because he's the only one sober enough.

They stay at Bobby's until Dean hasn't throw up in three days, from alcohol or anything else, and then Dad says there's a hunt and the empty spaces start to fill up.

It's easier after that, until it isn't. Birthdays. November. The times Sam drunk dials. The first time Dean hunts solo. The first time he gets sick and there's no one around to throw the bottle of Tylenol at him. Sometimes it's easy, and other times the empty spaces get emptier and he fills them again but nothing is ever the right size and he always throws up.

Dean never says anything about it. He hides as much as he can, just hunts and drinks and sleeps and doesn't really eat until he can do nothing else. Never eats in front of John, never throws up anywhere near, but John always somehow knows. Dean wants to stop, can go weeks, even, but somewhere between weeks and never again his brain short-circuits. Hunters never plan long-term.

John doesn't say much about it either, and usually it's only once in a while. If he throws up enough that his knuckles stay abrasion-red, John says something about needing to see Bobby. Then John actually stays around and Dean fixes his aim and fixes his cars and fixes himself. Sometimes Bobby tries to talk, but they all know what and why and how and there's not much more to say.

* * *

><p>The first time John doesn't pick up, Dean assumes he's still hunting. The second time, he figures the same.<p>

Four days and fifteen phone calls later, he's on his way to Palo Alto, fear filling those empty spaces so tightly he can't even think about food.

Three days after pulling Sam from a fire, Sam is starting to pull himself together and Dean is starting to fall apart. Because Sam needs him here and Dad needs them to help and Dean hasn't eaten since a candy bar in Jericho and Sam's noticed. So they go out and Dean eats the largest burger he can find, a ton of fries, and even though he already feels sick, he eats the other half of Sam's sandwich, the rest of his fries, finishes off another beer. And then he throws some bills on the table and tells Sam he has to hit the head, meet him by the car.

There are people in the restroom and there's nothing Dean hates more than that "hey, man, you okay" query from unfamiliar voices, so he uses the back exit of the bar, escapes into the darkest area of the parking lot behind the bar. He rests one hand against the back wall, doubled over, fingers of the other hand firmly down his throat, and tries to be as quiet as possible. But he's obviously not quiet enough because he doesn't hear the grate of gravel under sneakers until it's far too late.

"Dean?"

He drops his hand, rides out the dry heaving, trying to think past the pounding of his pulse and the sinking of his stomach and the newly, cleanly empty spaces filling up with fear. A large hand rests gently on his back and he spits one more time and straightens up, turning to look at his brother.

Sam's eyebrows are drawn together, his stupid floppy hair in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like words should be coming out but there's nothing but silence and empty space between them. Dean walks straight through the space, brushes past Sam and gets into the car. He sits alone for a couple minutes, staring through the windshield, the world pressing in and making him feel small. And it's only when Sam finally sits next to him that he can breathe at all.

Sam doesn't say anything and Dean just drives. It's dark outside, they've been driving all day, but there's an itch under his skin, a darkness behind his eyes, and he needs to get as far away as possible.

"Is this about Dad?" The question is so quiet, under the noise of the road and the hum of blood in his veins and breath in his lungs and he doesn't say anything back, just shakes his head shortly and looks straight ahead.

Because it isn't Dad. It isn't Dad right now any more than it was Sam when Sam was gone. It's the empty space, the time he should be obeying orders, cleaning guns, running laps so Dad would know he's ready. It's the fact that he's John's son and Sam's brother and a monster's hunter and a civilian's protector. Because the problem with being a son is that there has to be a father, and when Dad isn't here, Dean isn't anything at all, just a brother and a hunter and a protector surrounding the space where "son" should be. Because everything he is depends on how they need him to be, and that makes him need more than they ever could.

Sam is just Sam, he's shown everyone he doesn't' need to be a son or a brother or anything else because he's smart and strong and capable on his own. And so he doesn't understand.

"This isn't the first time, huh?" Sam asks even though it isn't really a question. Dean's hands shake enough he has to tighten his grip on the wheel and then the wheel shakes so he pulls over, shuts off the engine.

"Does Dad know?" He asks it loud, aggressive, already angry because there isn't a right answer. Dean knows what Sam will think, either Dad knew and let it happen, or Dad was oblivious and either way it's all Dad's fault.

"It's not his fault, Sam," Dean says instead. "He helped as much as he could."

"Sounds like it's been going on a while," Sam finally says and it's forcefully casual. He finally looks over at Dean and Dean looks away. "Was it when I…While I was gone?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes before that too."

"What?" Sam shifts in his seat until he's turned toward Dean, staring at him intently. "How long?"

"Just…a while," Dean mutters. He stretches his legs, thinks about getting out of the car, thinks about leaving this whole thing behind.

"Dean."

"You were twelve." He does get out of the car now, closes the door and leans against it, elbows resting on the top of the car, head in his hands because he doesn't want to see Sam's face. He's got to be planning to leave now, forget finding Dad or helping Dean, because this is exactly why he left. Because their family is fucked up, _Dean_ is fucked up, and Dean can't even blame him. He'd leave too, if he could.

He hears the creak of the passenger side door and doesn't even look up to say, "You can take the car if you want. Or I can take you to a bus station. Your choice."

He hears Sam sigh, loudly, pointedly. "I'm not leaving, Dean." The grit of gravel under sneakers yet again, and Sam is next to him, leaning against the car and staring out into the black, at all the empty space and Dean thinks maybe Sam understands too.

"Maybe we should take a break for a while," Sam suggests.

Dean shakes his head. "We need to find Dad."

"We need to get you better," Sam counters.

"We get Dad back and I will be better."

"That's not a solution," Sam argues. "You can't do this every time things aren't going well!"

Dean straightens up, glares at his brother. "It's not something I'm doing, okay, Sam? It just happens, and I can't –" He breaks off, turns away, kicking loosely at a rock, watches as it skitters off the edge of the pavement.

"Look, I'm sorry," Sam says behind him, voice soft and placating. "I didn't mean that."

"I know it's fucked up, okay? I know." And the sick thing is that he wants to do it right now, to eat until it _hurts_ and then it throw it up because just for a second it drowns out everything else. He's shaking again, weak, and he remembers that before tonight he hadn't eaten for days and he doesn't have anything left in him now to deal with Sam knowing how fucked up he is.

"Dean. Dean!" Sam is holding him up, reaching to open the door of the car, and then he's pushing Dean down to sit on the backseat, head between his knees, staring at the pavement between his boots.

"You can't do this, Dean," Sam says, and he's holding onto Dean's shoulder so hard it almost hurts.

Dean shrugs a little and Sam lets go, lets him sit up, hands him a bottle of water. He takes a couple of sips, breathes deeply through his nose.

"What do you need me to do?" Sam asks, still kneeling in front of him so he's at Dean's eye-level. "How do I help you?"

Dean starts to shake his head because he shouldn't need this, Sam doesn't need this, and Sam grabs his shoulder again, shakes him. "Don't give me that. What did Dad do? What do you need?"

Dean swallows hard, makes himself focus on Sam, on breathing and his heart beating and Sam here in front of him, here and real and needing him to say something. "He used to make sure I eat." His voice is rough, he hears the defeat in it and hates it.

Sam nods. "I noticed you hadn't been eating. Okay. Make sure you eat. Because…you're afraid you'll lose control if you get too hungry?" Dean nods and Sam's eyes widen suddenly. "Jesus. All those times when we were kids and you said you weren't hungry, when Dad was gone –"

Dean looks away, and Sam's grip on his shoulder tightens. "Were you…Dean, were you not eating so I could?" Of course Sam would work it out, got himself a fucking full-ride to Stanford, of course he can figure out something as simple as Dean. "And you'd eat when Dad came back and you'd...Fuck."

Sam stands up, turns away, combing his fingers through his hair, pacing a few feet and then coming back to where Dean is still hunched on the back seat of the Impala, still shaking and so fucking tired, drained, like there's nothing left to give.

"What else?" Sam says and Dean can hear the quake in his voice, the anger thrumming just under the surface.

"Just…Don't let me eat too much. Don't let me throw up." And if only it were that easy, he thinks, but he knows it isn't. He looks up at Sam and he can see meal plans and schedules and anger at their father spinning behind his eyes, but he feels the knot in his stomach ease all the same because it's not just him. _Hunting is control_ his Dad always used to say, but he hadn't been in control in years. Maybe Sam could be.

"Okay," Sam says finally. "Okay. Just. Just tell me if you're…you know. Just tell me. We'll figure it out."

They'll figure it out. So they get back in the car and Dean thinks of the empty road and the empty night and the empty space inside. And then glances over, sees the ginormous backpack taking up the floorboard, and Sam folded into the front seat, sees those gangly legs and feels that extra half-inch of stretch to reach the gas pedal and there are a lot of empty spaces, but there are a lot of full ones too.


End file.
